


Swamp Sounds

by nightcreeping



Category: Southern Comfort (1981)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Friendship, M/M, Movie scene, One Shot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcreeping/pseuds/nightcreeping
Summary: Hardin knew Spencer was just trying to lighten the mood, but he found he couldn't wrestle his fatigue into a faint smile.





	Swamp Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> The late night talk between Hardin and Spencer. Can be read as friendship or slash

"Boy, it's a great state you got here, Spencer.  Sent out one fuckin' helicopter." 

The sun had set an hour ago, and Hardin, Spencer, and that crazy dumbfuck Bowden were sitting on muddy ground propped against a rotting log. 

Hardin shook. He was cold. Been cold since this fucking morning. Bleeding out wasn't helping him neither. 

Spencer turned towards Hardin, annoyance clear. "What do you want them to do? Send out the National Guard?" He chucked, but it had the clear strain of anger that thrummed in the confines of the reply. 

Hardin just shot him a tired look, and Spencer met it with his own exasperation. 

Beyond their snide retorts, Bowden spoke. 

"Civilian in peace, soldier in war, I am the guard." He muttered in the same monotone lilt as before. 

Spencer and Hardin's gaze moved to the statuesque soilder. Bowden's eyes remained glazed and dull, and his hands lay clasped in one another lightly. 

_ Maybe he's coming back around? _

Spencer tried to engage him, "Bowden? Hey, Bowden. You wanna talk?" 

He leaned forward and nudged Bowden with his hand. Bowden was as responsive as a sack of flour. 

Watching from the log, Hardin just kept mulling the same thought over in his head. 

_ Your not gonna get anything out of him. He's crazy. _

Still, he wasn't one to go out of his way dash anyone's hope. Spencer already knew his position on the "avenging angel" anyhow.

Spencer tried again, "Hey, coach." 

Nothing. 

He sat back with a defeated sigh. 

It reminded Hardin of what Spencer had said earlier, "We're not all bad." 

This wasn't just a troop of hicks like it had been to Hardin. Spencer knew these folk, had been with them for a while. These were his buddies. 

Hardin decided to divert his focus off his own internal monologue. 

"What's he coach anyway?" 

"Football. What else?" Spencer replied. "Think he teaches history or something too." 

"Looks like it's all history for him now, poor bastard." 

Hardin didn't express his emotions often, but "poor bastard" had become his crutch phrase for expressing empathy. He pushed back the nagging thought his words weren't balm enough for this wound.

"Could be history for a couple of other poor bastards around here if  we don't get a break." 

Spencers joke stagnated in the momentary silence that followed, frail when unaccompanied by the compulsory laugh the rest of the crew would've provided. 

It was sobering. 

Hardin knew Spencer was just trying to lighten the mood, but he found he couldn't wrestle his fatigue into a faint smile. 

"Yeah." Hardin uttered plainly. 

There was another pregnant pause, but Hardin could tell Spencer wanted to talk.

_ Like he's allergic to silence.  _ Hardin mused .

The pain in his arm was flaring up again, and Hardin felt his adrenaline fueled frustration bottom out into resigned and agreeable fatigue. 

Spencer made another attempt. 

"Tomorrow about this time you'll be sitting in your den with a beer in your hand looking at the tube and listening to your old lady's bullshit."

He looked over to Hardin, who was starting to look more drained than annoyed. 

"I don't have a den." Hardin's eyes were dark and unreadable, but soft. They were focused on his arm, which was curled to his chest. 

"I'll buy you one if we ever get out of here."

"Great." Hardin's eyes were still on his arm, and Spencer felt the itching need to recapture his attention. 

"How long you been married?"

Hardin looked up, and then back down. Spencer followed his gaze after a second. 

Now they were both staring at his damn arm.

"Five years."

"Happy?" Spencer asked. 

"Hmm?" Hardin questioned, attention again recaptured.

"As in happily married?"

"Yeah. I like her. She's got a good sense of humour. What's it to you?"

Spencer smiled, and it was his turn to look away. 

He paused before delivering his blow. 

"I just thought if I got outta here and you didn't maybe I'd look her up."

They both chuckled at that, and Spencer's heart eased at the positive response to his joke. 

"I said she had a good sense of humour. I don't." 

Hardin had schooled his expression into a serious stare.

Spencer realized his joke was short lived. He felt his smile fade too. 

"Yeah. Mine's stretched a bit thin too at the moment"

Hardin sighed. "Since they got the trapper back... they must be hunting us just for the fun of it."

He got that Hardin wasn't in the mood for palling around, but Spencer himself wasn't fond of Hardins negativity. He didn't see how it could help. 

"You got an idea of something we can do about it or are you just talking for the record?"

Spencer challenged.

The small edge of their conversation had returned, almost unnoticeable if someone didn't know them. But Spencer knew Hardin, and Hardin Knew Spencer. 

Hardin's tone came back with just as much authority, serious and grave. 

"I'll tell you what I'm saying for the record.

I wanna live. 

I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I'm gonna fight my way outta here."

Hardin's confession sat heavy in Spencer's mind, and part of him was awed by Hardins plain determination. 

They were so different in tone and mindset. 

Spencer could tell he had been ready to give up long before the thought had even crossed Hardins mind.Somehow, it made him a bit sad. And a bit scared. 

"Well. Don't forget to save me a seat, pal."

Spencer's voice was a bit hollowed, and his eyes shone wet at Hardin's.

Hardin had felt the shift in Spencer's attitude like the wind in the trees, the adjustment from bitter annoyance and halfhearted jokes to something else, something foreign. 

They started at each other in the silence of the bayou, both tired, cold, and a little bit afraid, but Hardin replied with that same determined voice. 

"Don't worry. You got it."


End file.
